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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480245">How idle and alone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier'>asuralucier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Gay Spies in Retirement, M/M, Post-Canon, Sleepy Sex, Voice Kink, Vulnerability, character study through sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:55:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,181</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On Saturday mornings, Jim slept late.</p><p>(Or: Jim Prideaux and Ricki Tarr start over.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jim Prideaux/Ricki Tarr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Smut 4 Smut 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How idle and alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts">innie</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This one took a village; many thanks to flowerdeluce and ictus, as ever!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On Saturday mornings, Jim slept late, or tried to.</p><p>He was a military man through and through, both by nature, and by occupation (if formerly). Eventually, staying in bed until half nine became just another form of discipline. Another habit formed through the meticulous practice, and put into its rightful place. On Sundays, Jim had some reprieve, getting up at eight to attend morning Mass at the local parish. Sometimes, Tarr made noises about going with him, but so far no dice.</p><p>After that, it would be Monday again. Jim would fall once more into an easy routine, dictated by the straightforward boundaries of his new vocation as a schoolteacher. He rose early, always before his alarm, which was set for six on the dot. Then he'd shower, shave, have some coffee, skim a few lines of the paper, and then be out the door. Jim liked punctuality, and not wasting any time. He wanted to impart that on his boys for the future.</p><p>At least, that was what Jim told himself. Sometimes, it was true enough.</p><p>Other times… no dice, again. The phrase, flippant and decidedly un-English, wormed its way into Jim’s thoughts every time and caused him considerable anxiety with its foreign implications. But there was something else too, about the two words that took up residence in Jim’s head that offered a strange, if welcome intimacy. Jim always heard the phrase in an accent that was undeniably bred and spread in London, even though the threat of other cities was always nearby. What's more, the mouth that formed its sharp, simple lexemes was familiar to him too, in another way.</p><p>"And anyway," chided the same voice, low and sweet, "it doesn't count as lazing about if all you want to do is check your bloody watch, Jim."</p><p>As if his body was arrested by a new sort of gravitational pull, Jim turned his head towards the voice, finding its solid form, its naked arms and legs. "Who says I'm checking my watch?" He murmured, "My eyes are closed. Can't see a damn thing."</p><p>A man was forever a study in contradiction. An ongoing thesis troubled by sudden facts against the grain. This was especially true of men who went through the harsh wringer of the Circus. Jim didn't put much stock in lazing about in bed, but sometimes he hated opening his eyes. In the dark, his world could be whatever he wanted, and not a reality where Ricki Tarr took the piss out of Jim's so-called inflexibility (but never the inflexibility of Jim's poor old spine, bent all wrong) as a kindness.</p><p>Tarr said reasonably, "Yes, but you're thinking about it. Which is worse. You're choking on ritual, mate."</p><p>Jim opened his eyes once more. He had to admit, his first instinct was indeed to check his watch, but he didn't want to give Tarr the satisfaction. So he stayed still and said, "I'm not." It took a bit of doing, but Jim turned on his side, and pinched Tarr not too gently beneath his chin. "I'm not."</p><p>Tarr lay unmoving on his side, like a poised Grecian statue beside Jim on their bed. The other man’s eyes were hooded with sleep, but they were alert and thoughtful. Tarr liked to think of himself as a man on the fly. A man given to improvisation and couldn't be surprised for the life of him. (On the latter point: "Once you've been accused of murder and treason, there's not much else. Except for coming back from the dead, I suppose. You got me beat on that one.")</p><p>And yet, there was the part of Ricki Tarr that was happy to spend a Saturday morning dormant underneath a warm duvet, trapping Jim in place with just his cloudy, cheerful gaze. "What are you thinking about, then?"</p><p>Men of the Circus didn't speak, not much. Words were always untimely, troubled by unwanted company. Before Jim could open his mouth, he was compelled by a long habit to glance around the room, as if he were still expecting ghosts to appear out of the walls, out of nowhere.</p><p>Except they weren’t nowhere, exactly. Ghosts still lived in Jim’s head alongside “no dice, mate” in a north London twang. Tarr had lived all over the world, but he never forgot Camden on his tongue. Jim never questioned what kind of phantoms lived in Tarr’s head either, and wasn’t planning to start. Before they could give themselves over to each other and everyone else who’d come before, they gave themselves first to the Circus.</p><p>Even now, Jim thought that was true. He hated it less now, when he thought about it, though it remained another thing they didn’t speak about.</p><p>So Jim pulled him into a kiss, slow and warm. Lazy like Saturday mornings ought to be, though such an inclination was unnatural to Jim. He felt better following the other man's lead, as Tarr relaxed into the gesture, making a small, yet encouraging sound into his mouth. Tarr curled his fingers in against the slightly rough cotton of Jim’s white vest. He’d divested himself of the lonely caravan and her pride of place in the Dip, but not the vest.</p><p>Jim said, after they came up for air, "Who says I'm thinking about anything?"</p><p>"How does it go, 'the lady does protest too much, or summit?'" Tarr leaned in close, so that they were still sharing air. Tarr touched warm fingers to the side of Jim's neck, sliding up to brush underneath his jaw. Like any good soldier, just this made Jim's pulse jump out of habit. That said, Tarr was not too beholden to Shakespeare. Neither was Jim, but he was more careful about admitting to it. Oxford was some time ago, several lifetimes ago, but some things were hard to forget.</p><p>Tarr was also not too beholden to wearing much to bed. In fact, he wore nothing at all most nights and most mornings, until it came time to get out of bed. Jim reached for his hip, following another inclination that had only recently become natural. For how much it used to bother Jim, he now took comfort in it. Further, Jim took comfort in the marks that Tarr never took pains to hide from him. Some of the marks were still ugly and told the tale of a body that'd given too much, but still had something left to give. Honesty was a rarefied trait in men of the Circus. Moral decency being another.</p><p>"Maybe not," said Jim.</p><p>"Tell you what we should do, mate." Tarr looked at Jim most earnestly. "Maybe next Saturday, we can go to the races, hm? That way I don't have to be tired just watching you think. I don't know how you do it."</p><p>"I don't--"</p><p>"I know, alright?" Tarr hushed him, and suddenly, Jim could feel Tarr’s cock, coming awake with the rest of him, brush tellingly by his thigh.</p><p>“So you’d rather fuck instead?” Jim still had trouble saying, “fuck.” However, despite (or in spite of) the longstanding challenges posed by his spine, he got used to fucking in practice well enough. Tarr insisted on it, even said that the first time, after Jim made protestations about the state of his spine, that he didn’t mind doing all the hard work.</p><p>(“At least I get something out of it now, hey? The work, I mean, Jim. ‘S not like before.” And that was the closest they ever got discussing the Circus in bed. Jim was certainly content enough to let the matter rest.)</p><p>“Either that or go to the races,” said Tarr, and Jim knew despite the teasing note that was warm at the back of his voice, just underneath, that maybe the man was halfway to serious. “Pity we can’t do both at once.”</p><p>"You don't really think that," Jim exhaled, his breathing shorting reliably at Tarr's hands moved with unhurried, and yet unmistakable purpose southwards, near the band of Jim's shorts, and as reliable as a trigger, he felt his dick hardening at the promise of what was to come. Jim grunted with a little effort as he shifted to help Tarr get his shorts off. Once upon a time, he might have thought of it all as the start to a schoolboy fumble, now he thought differently. Prelude to a fuck.</p><p>"See? Not so hard, is it?" Tarr's lips were close to his, full and inviting as they ghosted just so over Jim's mouth, kissing him there, and under his jaw, and his hand dragged meaningfully from resting on Jim's thigh to grip around Jim's forming erection, first sliding his rough palm along the sensitive skin. Then Tarr tightened his hold, such a gesture accompanied by a dimpled grin that made him look years younger. Like he was the one ready for a fumble. Even if men like Ricki Tarr didn’t go for fumbles, really.</p><p>“Maybe not yet.” Despite what Jim liked to think about being able to control himself like a good Circus man, he barely bit back a moan, as Tarr once again dragged his grip up the length of his cock.</p><p>“Oh, no,” Tarr smiled warmly against his skin. “Of course, Jim. Not yet.”</p><p> </p><p>But it didn’t take so long for Jim to become fully hard, wanting more of Tarr--that is, Ricki--as the man straddled him as familiar as a jockey would straddle a prize steed, after he’d taken the time to slick himself open with some lotion they kept in the end table drawer for just this purpose. Ricki liked showing off, maybe in another life, he could have become an actor, ponce about onstage for a pretty penny. Maybe at the Old Vic.</p><p>“The Old Vic?” Jim prodded with a slight upward push of his hips, enjoying the immediate consequence of RIcki’s mouth going wide and slack. Although there were still parts of Ricki’s person that was unfamiliar to Jim, such as his dreams of taking the stage by storm; there were other sights, intimate and secret and dear, that Jim would never get tired of seeing. This was one of them. He splayed his fingers against Ricki’s thighs, feeling the inviting twitch of hard muscle.</p><p>“Hm,” Ricki agreed, although Jim had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t really listening. “I might have missed my calling.”</p><p>“I look at you,” said Jim in a rush. “Look at me.”</p><p>“My rapt audience of one,” said Tarr. “Is that it?”</p><p>“If you’d like,” Jim said, sliding his hands up to grasp Ricki now firmly by the hips. There was a small, jagged, blink-and-you’ll miss it scar there that Tarr had sustained from a brawl in Malaysia, that Jim had also gotten to know quite well with his tongue. Maybe later, he’d reacquaint himself with it. But now, Jim wanted to live up to it, his role as a rapt audience of one. It didn’t have to be anything complicated like running an identity, or tripping over harsh Hungarian vowels. He simply had to look.</p><p>And what a sight it was. Ricki was beautiful--no, extraordinary. Especially like this, when he was no one else’s but Jim’s to look at, with nothing to hide. </p><p>“Fuck,” Ricki groaned, grinding himself down as he got into Jim’s rhythm. The lean muscles of Ricki’s thighs now jumped with the increased tension and then as he worked himself on Jim's cock, the entirety of his body without secrets. After a moment, he freed his hand from the sheets, choosing instead to fuck himself into his grip, and Jim bucked his hips up again and again, desperate for release himself. Mostly, it was because Jim was watching Ricki, the man lost in his own ecstasy as he rode Jim’s cock towards his orgasm and how goddamn honest it was, and was always going to be.</p><p>Ricki moaned Jim’s name as he came, his come dripping from his hand onto his taut stomach. Jim followed, helpless to do anything else as Ricki tightened around him, no doubt chasing the remnants of pleasure that had come from the moment of his release.</p><p>They lay unmoving after that, though Ricki squirmed a little to kick the duvet away, and when he moved, Jim reached for him to keep him in place. Just for a little while longer. When Ricki saw Jim's expression, he smiled that smile Jim liked so much, and relented, pushing his hips forward a little just for kicks.</p><p>“Next Saturday, then, the ponies? Not that I mind this, don’t get the wrong idea,” Ricki prompted, his lips finding his favourite spot along Jim’s hairline, which he always insisted wasn’t receding, and Jim believed him. Finally, Tarr broke away from Jim's hold on him and rolled onto his back again, next to Jim on the bed. Still, he reached for Jim's hand, his fingers still sticky and yet Jim couldn't bring himself to mind in the usual way.</p><p>“Next Saturday then,” Jim murmured in faint agreement. Then he closed his eyes, content for once to drift back to sleep.</p>
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